


Alabaster and Cobblestone

by CryingKilljoy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CryingKilljoy/pseuds/CryingKilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something I wrote for drama class that had to be only one page with size 14 font. It's about a kid walking home in the snow, like whatever. *May be put in another fic, and parts of it are from Peroxide</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alabaster and Cobblestone

The cold is kin to the North Pole, and it’s a shock that there aren’t any elves trooping through the dense piles of snow ironing white to the ground, but elves of another form, beings floating along the winter breeze, bite at my cheeks on their way down the mountain, ushering the tint of blood to the surface of my skin to view its performance. The nymphs lace my ears in red ribbons at the tips and weave crimson through every peach complexion until I’m shivering at the icy parasites crawling across the elastic textiles of my flesh, and I thoroughly wish to be indoors where each spike the creatures carve into my lips meant to inject them with cobalt can be persuaded towards a smooth rosewood against the indigo chill, where the nymphs can be alchemized into the steam of hot chocolate tiptoeing up the walls and curling the wallpaper into a Christmas warmth, where all aspects of my scarlet-rimmed nose can be forgotten under a blanket, where I can be home.

So with that in mind and a shovel in hand, poised as though a possession of a mighty warrior, I position my sword through the layers of alabaster until mounds of snow clot languidly upon alternate laterals of my path, and the cobblestone of the street just barely pokes its frosted fingers from its absent oppressor in thanks.

Each stroke from the paintbrush of my shovel elucidates the fact that I will be home soon, that streaking stone textures through the snow will guide me towards a structure just as icy as the ground, that my slitted eyes are slitted only to remind me of my destination that’s now marching over the hill and towards my bundled figure, and at the mere thought of it, I thread my mouth into a grin and brand a bounce into my step.

Minuscule particles of ivory chap my lips, cheer for the fruition of my endeavors, whisper in my rouge-diffusing ears that nothing can stop me from extending every limb towards the home I’ve strived so avidly to meet again like old friends fettered by nostalgia, and it is in undeviating faith that I approach my welcome mat after ostensible years of traveling, only to exhume the tattered remains of a snowboard abandoned for winter pandemonium.

Neglecting the ghastly display of this season’s chaos, my hand beckons the doorknob to angle itself and grant me entry inside, and instantaneously an aroma like no other furnishes my brain in splendor, signaling that I am truly home again.


End file.
